


un chien andalou

by tersicore



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Hero Worship, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Serial Killers, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-06-24 15:22:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15633411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tersicore/pseuds/tersicore
Summary: "he probably thought it was a gift." you look back at the misshapen legs, its gore and permanent state of decomposition. the camera that reminded you so much of him. out of everything you'd seen in this horrible place, this was undoubtedly the worst."what do you see it as?" sebastian, too, stared at it. seemingly transfixed by the horror of it."the worst anniversary present in history."~~~~~life was a funny thing to bring you to him. after everything you'd been through, you'd have thought you'd be done with serial killers. now you're left with a choice: save the man who saved you all those years ago, or let him die by the hand of your psycho ex.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so this is an attempt to get back into writing. i’ve had this in my drafts for a while now along with the the whole thing outlined, so this will be a sort of short test-run to see if there’s still any interest in stefano or even the evil within as a whole. tags will be updated as needed on a chapter-by-chapter basis with any potential trigger warnings in the notes (excluding obvious evil within typical gore/blood). to set the scene, you’re in your senior year of high school, so your age is seventeen/eighteen. our boy stefano isn’t in this chapter, but he’ll be in the next one~ anyway enough rambling from me, and onto the story!
> 
> very brief mention of a rape kit with negative results.

It never would have crossed your mind how difficult breathing was with a rag wrapped around your mouth. The fabric was thick enough to just barely brush against your nostrils, but it was obstructive enough to impede your breaths. Even worse so when you were in the midst of a panic attack and each given breath already felt like a gargantuan pressure on your chest. God, you felt like you were going to pass out.

Except you couldn’t. Not when those eyes were watching your every move, those evil, vulgar eyes. They watched as your chest heaved and as the rope cut into your wrists, and you caught a glimpse of a grin in the darkness.

There was no sense of time in this dark and cold hovel, no clock or window to show you the passage of it. Just a hard mattress that dug into your spine and the burning binding your hands together.

You knew who this man was as soon as you saw his face beneath the baseball cap, the one news shows started called the Krimson City Killer. You were so  _ stupid _ . A serial killer in the area and of course you had to be naive enough to help an “old man” load groceries into his car. It hadn’t mattered how accurate those police sketches had been — he still got you in the end.

Suddenly there was a crash from above — guess that answers the question of where you were, a room in a basement. There’s a snarl from your captor but you’re not listening to him, you’re looking up with hopeful eyes at the sounds of multiple rushing footsteps with an occasional shout of “ _ clear! _ ”

Police. They found you. You were safe.

You were free.

* * *

 

Sebastian Castellanos followed the SWAT team into the house, gun in hand and ready to nail the son of a bitch he’d been after for months. Detective Joseph Oda and Officer Arnold Brown were checking corners before dispersing, off to different sections of the house to rescue the latest kidnapped girl. They’d taken far too long to find this killer. He just hoped they weren’t too late.

“Second floor’s clear,” Brown said, descending the stairs in the living room where the duo of detectives reconvened. 

“First floor’s clear, too,” Joseph grimaced. “Maybe he has a safe house?”

“Dammit.” Sebastian scowled. The time frame of the killer kidnapping and murdering his victims was almost up. If he had a safe house, there was no way they could find it before he killed the girl. They were already too late.

Then—

_ “Got a door here!” _

The detectives all turned to where one of the SWAT members called and rushed to the back of the house. There they found the uniform that found the door standing in front of what appeared to be a split in the wall. Looking closer, it was obviously a door.

“Sick fuck covered it in wallpaper the same as the walls,” the SWAT member said. Then he raised his rifle and motioned to Sebastian. “Ready when you are.”

Relief and angry determination flooded him, and once more he readied his gun. “Follow me. And be careful.”

Sebastian pointed his flashlight through the doorway, saw a set of stairs leading down, and began his descent. At the bottom was another locked door. He nodded to one of the SWAT members and moved out of the way. With a hard shove, the door gave way and Sebastian followed him inside. His blood ran cold at the sight.

You were standing in the center of the room, cut up and beat up. Bad. Bruises bloomed along your body, the worst appearing to be right beneath your left eye, and cuts littered along your arms and legs and stomach, some even fresh and still oozing an occasional spot of blood. You were in your underwear.

And standing behind you, holding a knife to your throat close enough that blood already began to well, was the Krimson City Killer.

“Don’t you dare!” His voice was high-pitched and frantic and that worried Sebastian the most. He was desperate, meaning he was willing to do anything. He’d kill you even if meant dying himself. “Drop your guns or she dies!” His arm twitched and the knife slid a tiny fraction across your throat. You choked. 

“I swear to god she’ll die!” He screamed again. “I’m not fucking around! Drop your weapons and get out or she’s dead! Hear me? Fucking dead—!”

It took one shot to the head. One shot from Sebastian’s gun for the Krimson City Killer to die and drop the knife. You screamed, whether from the gunshot or from feeling your would-be murderer’s blood hit your face. Sebastian rushed to you, shedding his trench coat in the process.

“It’s okay. You’re okay.” He kneeled to reach you from when you’d fallen to your knees and wrapped the coat around your shoulders. “He can’t hurt you anymore. You’re safe. You’re alive. You’re safe.”

You clung to him, a vice grip on his biceps that would leave nail marks that Myra would no doubt question about. He didn’t complain. “Thank you,” you hiccupped through your sobs. “Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you—”

* * *

 

You were taken to the hospital in an ambulance with Sebastian holding onto your hand the entire ride. The EMTs had originally loaded only you in the vehicle, but when you saw the man that saved you wouldn’t be going with you, you’d started screaming. After much persuasion (and perhaps threatening) on his part to the strict EMTs, he was finally able to ride with you. He didn’t let go of your hand even once you were sitting on the bed waiting for the doctor, and for that you were thankful.

It was relatively quiet in the hospital, and you’d fallen asleep fairly quickly. Nightmares plagued you, though. You weren’t sure nightmares wouldn’t ever plague you again. Your hand clenched in your sleep and when you felt no other hand but yours, your eyes flew open in a panic. You were about to start screaming again when another man walked into your room.

He clearly saw the look on your face because he bagan to pacify you quickly enough. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. Sebastian had to step out for a minute.”

Your heart was pounding and you sat up in bed, leaning back away from him, nervous being in the presence of a new man. You were still lucid enough to know the name didn’t register with you. “Sebastian?”

The man smiled, making his serious face appear more inviting. “The detective who stayed with you. My name’s Oda — Joseph. I’m just here to ask you a few questions.” He pointed to the chair beside you, the one Sebastian had occupied. “Mind if I sit?”

Nodding slowly, you observed him more. There was something in the glasses, the gloves, the waistcoat. Something familiar. “...You were there, too.”

Joseph became somber once more, leaning forward so that his elbows were resting on his knees. “Do you remember anything else from that night? Or the days before?”

With furrowed brows you shook your head. “It’s all a blur.” You fingered the bandaged cut on your stomach through the hospital gown. It still stung a bit, being deeper than the others. It bothered you even more than your swollen eye. “I’m pretty sure he drugged me.”

The detective nodded, pulling out a notepad and flipping through until he’d found what he was searching for. “Makes sense. It falls in line with what we found in the other women’s autopsies. Dr. Barnes said they found a customized drug cocktail in your system, the base of which was ketamine. Same as the others.”

A shiver worked its way through you, reminded as you were of the other more unfortunate women. To think you had almost been one of them….

Joseph seemed to notice and he quickly put the notepad away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You shook your head again. “It’s fine, I’m just—” tears quickly filled your eyes, your hands fisting the sheets covering you. “I wanna go home.”

There was discomfort on the detective’s face, and you saw him shift in his seat out of the corner of your eyes. Apparently dealing with emotions was not his forte. “We contacted your parents. I believe they were on a vacation?” He continued after you nodded. “They’re on their way here as we speak. They were desperate to catch the first flight out.”

“I was visiting colleges in the area. That’s why I stayed,” you choked out. “I’m so stupid, I should have gone with them. I could have died. I could have died and I would never have seen them again.” This time the tears didn’t stop and soon you were sobbing into your hands, the heart monitor beside you picking up your distressed state and beeping harder. You felt Joseph’s hand land gently on your shoulder, but in your tearful episode you didn’t hear the door open. Another hand joined Joseph’s on your other shoulder and you jumped and looked up.

“Come on, Joseph. I can’t leave you alone with a girl for five minutes without you making them cry?” The familiar face and voice had you reaching out for him, and Sebastian opened his arms when you threw yourself onto his chest.

Joseph visibly colored. “That’s not— I didn’t—”

Sebastian smiled. “It’s fine. Go back to the station. I’ve got her.” His arms tightened protectively around you, and it’s the safest you had felt since leaving that hellhole of a basement. There were footsteps as Joseph walked out and the sound of the door closing, and then Sebastian’s attention was all on you, all soft words and gentle touches. “It’s alright, kid. That’s it, just let it all out. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

* * *

 

Your reunion with your parents was a tearful one filled with fierce hugs and consoling kisses. Both of them refused to let go of you, just as Sebastian refused to leave the room. Your parents had almost said something about it, but when they saw the relief on your face at having your savior by your side, they quickly let it go. As far as they were concerned, they owed the detective their lives for saving their daughter.

The reunion was too-soon broken up by the doctor, who, now that your family was there as you’d requested, insisted on a rape kit. She assured that the decision was up to you, and although it was just procedure and there were no visible signs of sexual trauma, in the case that something had happened there was always the risk of STDs or pregnancy—

The force of the shudder almost made you convulse at the thought of having that monster’s child and you agreed to the examination. And though you asked your parents to wait outside, you sent a pleading look to Sebastian, hoping he’d understand.

It seems he did because he soon made his way around to your bed, standing beside your head and holding your hand just as he did in the ambulance. Given the look on your father’s face, he was clearly about to say something about an older man being in your room for the exam but thankfully your mother stopped him with just a shake of her head and a nod at the look on your face. She seemed to understand that at that moment you felt safest with the detective.

The rape kit was long and uncomfortable, but Sebastian kept you grounded with the sound of his voice as he regaled you stories about his family. There was a slight heaviness in your chest at your realization that he was married, but you didn’t pay much attention to it, instead listening to him speak of the time his daughter Lily managed to color one of his ties with yellow and green paint to “make his clothes happy.” 

He distracted you throughout the procedure and afterward while waiting for the results, and before you knew it the doctor was back with a smile and saying that the rape kit came back negative. Your hand in Sebastian’s grip shook at the relief that flooded you and he smiled down at you, sharing in the one good news that came out of your nightmare.

* * *

 

They kept you in the hospital a whole day for monitoring, but aside from the undisputed psychological trauma you’d acquired, there was little wrong with you, just a few stitches here and there. You were assured the cuts on your body would scar, but that with time they would fade. Your memories and nightmares, though — well, those were different stories.

At midday the next day when you’d left the hospital flanked by your parents, you found Sebastian waiting outside for you with balloons and a stuffed monkey. He wore a smile and greeted your parents amicably before turning to you.

“Lily helped pick the monkey,” he added in apology with a grin, as if you would feel anything but love for the sentimental gift.

You hugged it to your chest, careful to not squeeze it against any of the cuts still healing. “I love it, detective. Thank you.”

As your parents left with the balloons to bring the car to the hospital entrance, you saw Sebastian sober up and reach into his back pocket. “I know you’ve been through a rough time, kid. I know that nothing I can say can help.” He held out two cards to you, one you spotted with a name unknown to you, the other with  _ Sebastian Castellanos _ handwritten in black. “I may not always be able to help, but that’s my number anyway. If you need a friend. The other is a therapist highly-recommended by the precinct. He, I can assure you, can always help.”

And suddenly you felt a constriction in your throat and panic set in, much like when you were gagged underground. You hadn’t even thought about therapy, about the years of treatment it would take to get you back to normal. How long would it take for you to recuperate? How many sessions would you need for the nightmares and flashbacks to stop? You felt very alone in that moment until your eyes once again drifted down to Sebastian’s phone number.

No. You weren’t alone. Not really.

“Thank you,” you mumbled weakly, staring down so he wouldn’t see the tears in your eyes.

“Hey.” Unable to resist, your gaze darted up to find him staring down at you with serious eyes, but a kind smile. “You’re gonna beat this, kid. The hard part is over. Now you just gotta keep fighting.”

Your jaw clenched in determination. That was a call to arms if you ever heard one, and you were determined to fight like Sebastian said. You nodded resolutely. “Thank you, detective. For everything.” There was a weight to your words and you could tell he understood by the softening in his gaze. His hand squeezed your shoulder gently, no words needed to describe what the two of you felt.

The two of you were brought back to the present when your mother called you from the passenger seat of the car, idling in front of the hospital ramp. Sebastian helped you into the minivan where the balloons were already waiting for you, and with one final goodbye to the detective, your father drove off. You turned in your seat and watched as Sebastian gave one final wave before walking off, presumably to his own car.

Turning to the two cards in your hand, your finger traced over the curls of the letters of Sebastian’s name.  _ Castellanos _ . Funny. During the whole ordeal, you hadn’t once known his last name. It fit him, somehow. You sighed as you pocketed his card and stared down at the number of the psychologist. 

It looked like you had a call to make. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so here's chapter two! i wanna thank everyone who left kudos on chapter one, especially since it was a very slow start. thank you to everyone who read and gave this fic a chance! and without further delay, here's chapter two with our boy stefano!
> 
> just a quick note that stefano is 23 at the time, so he's either 4 or 5 years older depending on whether you chose to be 17 or 18 in the last chapter. age range for you is now 18/19.

It’d been six months since that fateful night; that night you constantly relived in flashbacks and nightmares; that night that led you to Sebastian Castellanos, a man you’d considered a friend when you’d most desperately needed one; that night that had your palms sweating and heart racing every time you were alone with a man. That night you couldn’t forget even if you wanted to. And you desperately wanted to.

You had taken a semester off, working exclusively with the therapist Sebastian had recommended to combat the lurking demons in your head. You attended session after session, first of psychoanalysis then of EMDR, an exhausting form of hypnotherapy that nonetheless proved effective. It was unpleasant, though, a method that had you reliving your trauma twice a week, but it had you seeing progress as early as a month in. The sooner you were done with the trauma, the better.

Luckily, as you’d still enrolled within the year, your scholarship was still accepted for you to attend Krimson City University. However due to you having an undeclared major, you were forced to take only pre-req classes. Rather than sit through another generic English course, you’d signed up for a journalism class that would be a bit more entertaining. 

As you sat in the back, mindlessly twirling your pen until the professor arrived, a body sat itself in the seat next to yours. You tensed, having purposefully chosen one of the back seats to avoid unnecessary human contact, but planned to ignore your neighbor for the time being. 

Until he turned to you and gave you no choice in the matter. 

“Good morning,” he grinned, and despite your initial unnerving you couldn’t help but notice how attractive he was. 

“Morning,” you replied noncommittally. You assumed he’d turn back and mind his own business as everyone else in class had been doing, but it seemed this man was different. 

“Are you excited for this class?” The more he spoke, the more you caught on to his accent. Spanish maybe?

“Sure,” you shrugged. He tilted his head, seemingly waiting for more. “I mean — it’s not really something I’m interested in pursuing, but it’s better than English one-oh-one.”

“What are you majoring in?”

“Undeclared.” He hummed and nodded and you got the sense he was waiting for you to ask him the same. “What about you? Journalism?”

“Ah, not exactly.” He smirked. “This is merely a necessary evil to become a war photographer.”

Your eyes widened involuntarily. “You’re planning on becoming a war photographer?”

“Perhaps,” he replied breezily. “Someone needs to expose the world to the truth of what goes on overseas. But I admit, photography in general is my passion.” You were suddenly struck with the predicament of not knowing whether this man was very brave or very foolish. He gestured to the elegant camera on his corner of the desk that had previously gone unnoticed by your gaze. “It is an art. Capturing a still image of that which can so easily fade away. Don’t you think?”

“Uh, sure.” You smiled awkwardly, not really knowing much about the art apart from what you found aesthetically pleasing or not. The man seemed to sense your hesitation and quickly sought to remedy it.

“Forgive me, I tend to forget myself at times.” He held a hand out to you and presented you with another dashing smile. “Stefano Valentini, at your service.”

You took his hand in your own, blushing a bit and murmuring your own name in greeting, and openly stared when he brought your hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. His styled hair was almost long enough to cover his eyes, but it was short enough that you could still see when he sent you a wink. You’d be lying if you said your heart didn’t skip a beat.

“I’m sure this is the start of a beautiful friendship,  _ bella _ .”

And so it was. 

You only had the one class with Stefano and he was already in his final year of school, but the two of you quickly became inseparable on campus. He’d made it his mission to escort you to each class no matter how out-of-the-way they were from his own and he was by your side each break between classes, an act which you were thankful for. Despite the success of your still-ongoing treatment, your kidnapping had made you more anxious than you’d previously been and you found yourself nervous when alone. Having Stefano there beside you was like having an immovable force that forever shielded you.

Despite a month of daily interactions passing and your bond growing stronger by the hour, you still hadn’t revealed to him your past trauma. You liked him and you knew he liked you too, but you couldn’t in good faith pursue a relationship with him without him knowing the truth about you. You owed it to him to let him know that you carried a profound emotional baggage and were still heavily affected by it. So you did what anyone in your position would have done: accepted his proposal of a date and settled on telling him over dinner.

Except the date was more than a simple dinner.

Unbeknownst to you, as you walked off campus arm-in-arm with the Italian, he proudly told you a surprise he had. As you came to a stop at an all-white building, you read the flyers on the doors: KCU STUDENT PHOTOGRAPHY EXHIBIT. STEFANO VALENTINI. ONE NIGHT ONLY.

You turned to Stefano with a look of surprise, lips a perfect “o.” He hadn’t mentioned anything about an exhibit. “Stefano, you—”

Beneath your gaze, the smallest tint of red grew on his cheeks. He looked away and rubbed the back of his neck with a small grin. “Professor Kim cornered me after class one day and asked if I’d be interested in holding an exhibit. He loved my photography apparently.” The hand dropped from his neck to grip your own, slowly intertwining your fingers together. “I wanted it to be a surprise for you.”

Blushing profusely but with a large smile, you squeezed his hand with your own. “I’m definitely surprised. And congratulations! This must mean the world to you.”

A gentle smile was reciprocated. “Perhaps. Or perhaps  _ this _ is.” He squeezed your hand back and lifted your mingled hands to kiss the back of your hand, just as he did a month ago when you’d first met.

You’d known Stefano was a romantic, prone to dramatic declarations of poetry and exclamations, but you didn’t think he’d be so smitten with you after only a month. And on your first date, no less. Either way, his words and his actions still sent your heart racing. Maybe you were a romantic, too.

Tugging at his hand, you grinned widely at him, unable to hide your excitement as you lead him through the doors. “Come on, I want you to tell me all about every single picture!”

Stefano telling you about every single picture, as you’d requested, proved to be somewhat exhausting. After he’d describe to you what inspired each piece, he’d look to you for approval or input and you’d nod along and string together sentences with words like “chiaroscuro” and “exposure,” pretending to understand what was being said. Truth be told, you knew little about art other than what piqued your interest.

But Stefano’s works were beautiful. They were vibrant and filled with colors and and emotion and  _ movement _ . You had no idea still photographs could capture such movement before. Even a layman such as yourself was awed. The more you gasped and sighed at the pictures, the more Stefano seemed to preen for you, head held high and chest puffed out in his navy suit. He was proud he could evoke such emotion from you.

And finally it came down to the last portrait. You were struck with a sudden sadness that it was almost over, not even remembering your earlier plans of divulging your secret to Stefano. At that moment, despite the crowds of people  _ ooh-ing _ and  _ ah-ing _ at his photographs, it was just you and Stefano in your own little word he created. Without realizing it, you’d fallen in love with his art.

Stefano led you by your linked arms — which had somehow happened during the night’s excitement — towards a final black and white portrait. It was the largest image, easily sixty-by-forty inches, and you let out an audible gasp when you saw it. The people who had been admiring it turned to the source of the noise and began whispering excitedly when they saw you.

The picture was of you.

It was a profile shot, of you sitting in the grass and leaning against a tree in the campus courtyard. Your head was tilted down, reading the textbook in your lap while all around you there were notes scattered among the grass. On your face, there was a tiny smile and you were biting your bottom lip, as if refusing to let it consume you. You remembered that day clearly. You'd had an anthropology test in an hour and were going over your notes one final time. Stefano had been beside you and saw how stressed you were and began to play with his camera. He must have taken at least thirty pictures of you, you remember the shutter going mad. You’d begged him at first to let you study, but soon you were laughing and playing along with him, attracting odd glances your way from passing students but not caring. The picture must have been right before you gave in and laughed.

Stefano was oddly quiet, not telling you a thing about the picture and watching you closely. His eyes never roamed from your face.

Slipping your arm out of Stefano’s hold, you walked closer towards the photo. Your gaze drinked in every detail, every crinkle in your outfit and strand of hair and the indents your teeth left in your bottom lip. Did you always look so beautiful, so full of life? Or was that Stefano’s magic? Was that how he saw you?

Finally your eyes left the picture and they strayed to the title card hanging on the wall beside it.  _ Love Struck, 2008 _ . Your breath hitched.

“This was the photograph that assured me my own exhibit,” Stefano murmured in your ear, and you jumped. For once, not out of fear.

“Is that how you see me?” You asked, breathless.

He looked down at the floor, but his hand had wandered and his thumb was idly trailing over your knuckles. “You hate it.”

“No,” you said, and rose up onto your toes and gripped him by his jacket’s lapels. “I love it.”

And you kissed Stefano Valentini in the middle of his first art exhibit.

* * *

 

“I didn’t know whether you’d be mad or not.” Later at a small Italian restaurant Stefano swore had the most authentic food, he confessed his worry to you. “I didn’t exactly ask for your permission.”

You shook your head after taking a sip of your iced tea, a small smile on your lips. “The surprise was worth it.”

With those words, the tension you had now realized Stefano carried the whole night vanished, shoulders visibly relaxing. “I’m glad.”

There’s a lull in the conversation as the waiter brings you your food and you prepare yourself to ask the question you’ve been wanting to ask since leaving the art exhibit.

“So,” you drag out, hoping to gather courage the longer you drew out the syllable. “What made you want to name it ‘Love Struck?’”

Stefano paused with his glass of wine almost to his lips — you’d assured him it was alright for him to drink in front of you, you, after all, could not yet legally drink — and he tilted his head curiously at you. “Is it not obvious?”

Heart hammering in your chest, you could do nothing more but shake your head, words failing you in that instant.

“Bella,” he began with that soft smile you loved so much, and he set the glass down to reach across the table to hold your hand. “That is what I feel every time I look at you.”

And there went your pulse. You were sure he could hear your heartbeat despite the distance between you, and you had to force yourself to look away from his gaze before you began blushing.

Then, you remembered the true reason for the date.

“Stefano,” you said gently and began pulling your hand out from under his. “There’s something I need to tell you. Something big. And you might not like me after this is over.”

A flash of worry passed over his face like a shadow, and you briefly wondered what might have gone through his head. But soon he reigned back his emotions to give you all his attention. “Of course, bella. You can tell me anything. My feelings for you won’t change.”

_ We’ll see,  _ you thought cynically, already picturing the worst and seeing him storm out in a panic after disclosing to him.

There was a lump in your throat you swallowed past and your heart started hammering again, only this time it was not out of affection for a man. “This summer, I— oh god, there’s no easy way to say it, so I’m just going to come out and say it, okay?” You took a deep breath and before he could say anything in affirmation, you blurted out “I was kidnapped by the Krimson City Ripper.”

Your eyes never budge from Stefano’s, who stayed staring at you, lips parted in shock but not saying a word. When the silence continues, you shifted in your seat.

“He didn’t do anything to me other than cut me up a bit, but he had me in his basement for forty-five hours. I’m Jane Doe in the papers — they couldn’t use my real name because of legal reasons, but that story is mine.” You kept going. “And I have depression and anxiety and PTSD from it and I’m getting counseling twice a week and I’m doing better but I still get nightmares and— and— why aren’t you saying anything?”

You were afraid. God, you were afraid. You fucked everything up between the two of you.

And still, Stefano was quiet. What seemed like a lifetime passed. Then, finally, after a long while, he said, “I figured.”

Your eyes went wide. “You knew?”

“Not specifically, no,” he said gently. “But I assumed something tragic must have happened. An artist can recognize tragedy in a person, no matter how hard they try to hide it.”

Once more, his hand reached across to you, and this time you held onto him, too. “This must have haunted you for so long.”

“Yes,” you whispered, feeling the tell-tale sting of tears in your eyes. “This isn’t going to be easy. I have issues. If you want me, you’re gonna have issues, too.”

“Bella, I promise you,” Stefano narrowed his eyes, and you saw the resolve in that beautiful blue. “No more demons will come to get you, whether they are physical or in your head. I swear it.”

Wetting your lips and swallowing past the lump in your throat, you nodded, believing him.

That was your first mistake.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is hella late, but it’s HERE. i’m not too proud of this chapter but i really had to bust it out so that the action can finally start in the next one with all the murders and whatnots. i’m moving the timeline around a bit since the wiki suggests stefano lost his eye in the war in early 2009 but (given that that was only the very beginning of any conflicts in Yemen) i’m moving his accident date to early 2012 instead where the majority of the fight with al-Qaeda happened. i also needed the accident to happen near another incident that occurs within tew for...plot reasons. you’ll see. 
> 
> and thank you to everyone for your views and comments! i haven't been able to respond to them but know that i appreciate them and all of you <3

Ironically, you went on to declare yourself with a major in journalism. The single class you’d had with Stefano and the small brush you’d had with the local papers regarding your kidnapping had ignited a passion within you to deliver the truth to the masses. As Stefano had once said, and it rang clearly in your head ever since, “Someone needs to expose the world to the truth of what goes on.” Admittedly, you were only an intern at the Krimson Post, but one day you hoped to cover news that were important to the people.

You and Stefano had continued to date steadily even after his graduation. In fact, your relationship had been such a success that you’d moved into his apartment a year later. You’d dreaded telling your parents of your news but, as the two people who had seen firsthand how you had withdrawn into yourself and become far more dependent on them after your trauma, they were proud to see you take the first step towards independence. Although your father disapproved of Stefano’s work as a freelance photographer, claiming it would never be enough to support a family — at which point you’d blushed profusely and begged him to stop talking — both he and your mother approved of the considerate and kind man you’d decided to spend your time with.

Although most days you were swamped with your unpaid internship and further homework, you still made time to visit every one of Stefano’s exhibits every opening night. You’d walk in with him arm-in-arm and radiate pride whenever an admirer came up to congratulate and praise him. Of course there were critics, there always were, but Stefano would smile and nod with all the grace and poise of a gentleman. One night at home after one such occurrence where a critic called his work “unoriginal and uninspiring,” you’d asked him whether it bothered him.

“It’s ignorance,” he said casually, waving a hand. “I like taking pictures of things with life. If some people want things that are more macabre, they can take those pictures themselves.”

And it was true, for Stefano prided himself in photographing nature and people and sunlight filtering in through curtains. You’d wondered before if his refusal to photograph the more unconventional stemmed from a fear of being shunned by the art world, but it seemed he truly enjoyed taking pictures of lively things. Either way, Stefano’s art was beautiful. He was an artist in every sense of the word, and you were proud to call him yours.

A year later in 2010, you’d finally managed to snag a job at the Krimson Post. It was an entry job, of course, paying little more than minimum wage, but you were finally working for a respectable paper. Stefano, too, had continued to soar in the art community, now booking venues all around the state and sometimes even venturing to the further reaches of the country. D.C., New York, LA — everyone wanted a piece of him.

But still it wasn’t enough.

Though you were now able to buy a fairly-lavish home with your shared income (more Stefano than yours) and his name was as common among the photographic-elite as André Kertész, you would see him at the end of the day staring wistfully at his old camera, the very same one he had proudly shown to you the day you met. It was early 2012, and news of the war in the Middle East was at an all-time high. The television in your room played softly in the background. It was late and you’d just had a dinner party for a potential buyer, one of the many procurers of Stefano’s photographs. It had been a success and you thought to celebrate with sex, as Stefano was prone to do after a substantial purchase. Clearly now was not the time, not with him sitting at the vanity staring forlornly down at the camera he had purchased for one single purpose.

“You still want to go, don’t you?” You asked softly.

“Yes,” he said wistfully. Then he turned tortured eyes to you, conflict written in their depths. “I don’t want to leave you.”

You stood from the bed and came up behind him, wrapping your arms around him and nuzzling your face into the side of his neck. Physical affection always calmed him in the past, and sure enough soon you felt the tension in his shoulders ease. “You won’t be leaving me. I’ll still be with you. But this is what you’ve always wanted to do.”

“I’ve always wanted to be with you, too,” he rebutted, and turned his face to the side so he could kiss your cheek.

You smiled gently, kissing his cheek back. “But I won’t stand in the way of your dream. If this is what you want, I’ll support you whichever way I can. Even if that means seeing you go.”

Slowly he removed you from him and stood, turning to you so his arms wrapped around your waist. He pulled you close with a smile, tinged only slightly with sadness at the thought of leaving you. “How did I get so lucky to find you?”

You smiled again, with no sadness, knowing he’ll be happier when he returns home for fulfilling his dream. “Guess you got lucky.”

He kissed you and lifted you into his arms, carrying you to the bed. You celebrated for an entirely different reason, then.

* * *

 Saying goodbye to Stefano at the airport was tearful on both your parts. Your parents had gone to show you support in the hard time, but they were ignored while you were wrapped in each other’s arms for the last time in what would be months. National Geographic had offered him a job that would last ten months in total to take photos of the war. And while Stefano would not be participating in the war, he’d still be in the war zone on a daily basis. Although you had been the one to convince him to go, your heart clenched at the thought that you might never see him again.

“You’ll wait for me?” He whispered into the top of your head.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you chided into his chest. “Of course I’ll wait for you.”

“I love you,” he said, and you felt it against your cheek when his heart leapt.

“I know.” A tear fell and you buried your face deeper into his chest to wipe it away on his shirt. “I love you, too.”

You felt your mother’s hand on your shoulder and pulled back, having been so wrapped up in each other you hadn’t heard the notice for boarding. Stefano still had to make it through security if he wanted to catch his flight, and he would have to do it now.

“I love you,” he said again as he walked away.

“Me too,” you nodded, unable to say more for the lump in your throat.

You stayed as he made the progression through the line, flanked on either side by your parents, your mother who held your hand and your father who rubbed your back. Now that he could no longer see you, you let the tears fall. You were so focused on Stefano you didn’t notice, but if you had you would have seen out of the corner of your eye various other men and women and children who cried along with you as they said their goodbyes to their own loved ones. It seemed Stefano wouldn’t be going off to war alone.

Once he made it to the other side of the metal detector, you watched as he collected his shoes and wallet and camera. As soon as he was done, he looked up at you through the throng of people and smiled. He put on a brave face, but you could see the lone tear that slipped from his left eye. He waved and blew a kiss at you exaggeratedly, hoping to make you smile like always. It worked and you laughed through the tears at his antics, blowing him a kiss in return.

Then it was time for him to leave, and the two of you locked eyes until he was finally out of sight for good. As soon as you could no longer see him, you broke down into sobs, throwing yourself at your father and crying into his chest as he soothingly rubbed your head. You felt the vibrations in his chest as he spoke to you, but you couldn’t make out the words over your own heartbreak.

The first month was the hardest. You’d gotten so used to coming home to Stefano either in his office or in the dark room downstairs processing his pictures that the first night you’d come home to an empty house, you’d gone straight to your shared bedroom to cry. Everything reminded you of him, everything was filled with his essence and memories. One night it had gotten so bad, you’d started pawing through your old boxes of unsorted papers, searching for your psychologist’s number. You’d deleted it from your phone like the idiot you were after you were finished with your treatment, but you desperately needed someone to talk to without having them judge you.

You finally found the card at the bottom of the box, only to see it wasn’t the only card there. On a crumpled piece of paper you saw written in slanted black ink “Sebastian Castellanos.” You blinked. It had completely slipped your mind he had given you his number. It’d been — what? — four, five years since you’d last seen him? You remember the crush you’d developed on the man who saved you, who had been so kind to you in the hospital. Why had you never called him? In the back of your mind, a small and distant whisper, you wonder what had happened to him after all this time. On an impulse, you input his name and number into your phone.

It was a few days later in early February that you were assigned to write a short piece on a local house fire that claimed the lives of a caretaker and a child. Juanita Flores and … Lily Castellanos.

Like watching a movie, a scene played out in front of you, a memory. A handsome man holding your hand when you were scared and laughing as he regaled you with a story. _‘Little rascal painted one of my ties to make my clothes happy. You should see it. Green and yellow all over.’_

Your throat and eyes burned. You deleted Sebastian’s number from your phone.

* * *

 One month later and you had grown accustomed to the solitude of your large house. Not that you spent much time there anyway. There were still lingers of Stefano that would occasionally give way to hysterics, worry and dark thoughts gnawing at your gut that any day the phone would ring with the worst possible news.

_We’re sorry, miss, but there’s been an accident. Stefano Valentini’s dead._

You tried not to dwell on those thoughts, but without any sort of contact from him your brain immediately turned to the worst case scenarios. So instead you worked. You worked hard. And come night, you’d go drinking with coworkers, people you could barely call friends but who kept you company anyway. When you got home, you’d head straight to bed and collapse. Come morning, rinse and repeat.

And through it all, the fear. The _‘we’re sorry, miss, there’s been an accident’_. You told yourself you were exaggerating.

Until one day you weren’t.

You’d just gotten out of the shower, a rare weekend where you had no deadline and could spend the day doing whatever the hell you wanted. You were just thinking about grabbing breakfast at a nearby diner when it happened.

The phone rang.

At the first ring, you froze. At the next, your heart sped up. At the third, your hands were shaking and you began to sweat and your throat closed up and there was a pressure on your chest and you swore you were seeing double, and what was wrong with you it’s just a phone call, why were you reacting this way?

In two steps you reached the landline on Stefano’s nightstand and answered. You wet your lips and swallowed past the lump in your throat.

“Hello?” There was silence for a brief second. Then—

“Is this the home of Stefano Valentini?”

“Yes,” you said, feeling an incomprehensible pit in your stomach.

“And is the woman I’m speaking with—?”

“Yes, I’m his girlfriend,” you said hurriedly. The pit in your stomach grew, your hands were shaking again. “Who is this? What’s wrong?”

“This is Colonel James Anderson of the United States Army.” And there was a pause, hesitance. “We’re sorry, miss. There’s been an accident.”


End file.
